


Sherlock in the Flesh

by AbegaylTanner



Category: In the Flesh (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - In The Flesh, Blue Oblivion, Gen, I may end up adding a few ITF characters later, Mentions of Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Drugs, References to overdosing, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, The Author Regrets Nothing, What Have I Done, Without any actual ITF characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:58:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbegaylTanner/pseuds/AbegaylTanner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sort of fusion between BBC Sherlock and BBC In The Flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock in the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I will write a better summary when I get a bit more written for this. Not Beta'd or Edited. I'm American so if any of the language is wrong, please feel free to point it out so I can make the appropriate changes.

“You should be wearing your cover up mousse, Sherlock.”

“I prefer to be au naturale.”

“This isn’t up for discussion…”

“No, Mycroft, it really isn’t. It’s not like I’m rabid. I take my required dose of Neurotriptyline, I’ll not be forced to hide who I truly am because it makes the likes of you uncomfortable. I am Partially Deceased. Get over it.”

Mycroft stares at his brother for a moment, then turns to leave. There will be no negotiating with him today. Perhaps tomorrow. Regardless, he needs to ensure Mrs. Hudson has this months’ supply of Neurotriptyline.

As Mycroft left, Sherlock turned back to his microscope, but he’d already missed the reaction he’d been waiting for. With an annoyed grunt, he pushed himself up from his chair and moved into the living room. His violin sat where it had been placed two weeks ago when he’d first been released from Halpern & Weston Partially Deceased Treatment Centre. He’d planned to return to his flat on Montague, but Mycroft’s minions had deposited him here where Mrs. Hudson (a lovely woman he knew from before The Rising) had taken a three week training course in the treatment of PDS sufferers and the administration of Neurotriptyline. He hadn’t played it since… since before the overdose. He gently removed it from its case and turned to his arm chair. He really should get back into practice.

 

***

_One Month Later_

It was Mike Stamford that introduced Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. It pained him to realize that his old uni buddy had become one of The Risen while he’d somehow managed to survive The Rising while being overweight. It hadn’t been easy, but he’d managed. He lived with his PDS wife in their small, one bedroom flat. He’d been on break between classes, having a sit in the park a block or so away from St. Bart’s when he saw John. He hadn’t realized at first that John was Partially Deceased. He looked just as alive as when they’d crammed for finals together that last year as students, though a bit older, of course.

“John?” he called out, standing from his bench and taking a step towards the man. “John Watson?”

John turned and stared at him a moment before going over. 

“It’s Mike. Mike Stamford,” he smiled slightly at the look of realization that crossed John’s face. “Yeah, I know. I got fat.”

John smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine, fine. Heard you were off somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

“Well,” John sighed. “I got shot.”

Mike looked abash for a moment before he really looked at John and noticed his condition. “Oh, are you? Sorry. Christ, John, I’m sorry.”

John shrugged, “nothing for it.”

“I’ve got a bit before I need to head back if you’d like to grab a coffee.”

“I can’t drink that stuff, Mike; but I’ll sit with you a while.”

Not much later Mike has a fresh cup of coffee and they’re sitting beside each other on the bench Mike had vacated when he’d noticed John. “So, staying in London, then?”

“I’d like to. Getting a stipend from the Army. I did die while serving.”

“The bullet?”

John let out a humorless chuckle. “No, the fever. Field hospitals aren’t that great. Don’t let the news fool you.”

“Can Harry help?”

John glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Things aren’t so well with Harry right now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, she joined the Human Volunteer Force. They’d contacted her when they were ready to release me from the treatment center. She didn’t take to kindly to being told I was alive… sort of.”

“Shame,” Mike thought for a moment. “Have you considered a flat share?”

John smiled a bit. “Come on, Mike. Who’d want me for a flat mate?” Mike smiled right back. “What?” John asked.

***

John never could understand why Sherlock refused to wear the cover up mousse and contacts. It never bothered him to wake up a little early to have time to put it on before he left the flat. He knew if he were staying home all day, he could get away with not wearing it all, but even then he rarely went without. It had become ingrained in who he was just as much has his military cleanliness (at least when it came to his room and the dishes; everywhere else showed obvious signs of the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes). It became routine. Wake up, make the bed, get into daytime clothes, brush teeth, wash face, comb hair, apply cover up mousse, put in contacts, and wait for Mrs. Hudson to come up for their dose of Neurotriptyline.

He’d only lived with Sherlock Holmes for three months, but already he was happier than he’d been since… well, as far back as he can remember. And that includes when he was actually alive. Living with Sherlock was one adventure after another. The man was forever playing with chemicals and body parts in their kitchen (and it’s a good thing neither of them ate human food) or chasing after some criminal or PDS gone rabid. It was certainly never boring.

John smiled as he thought back to that first night in 221B. Lestrade and his unit had stopped in for a drugs bust in retaliation to Sherlock skiving off with a suitcase that belonged to the woman on that very first case. It still pissed him off to think about Sherlock running experiments on the effects of Blue Oblivion, recording each run so that he could review it later. He still had the recordings. John made the mistake of trying to watch them once, but he never wanted to see Sherlock that way again. It made his chest ache. 

***

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked one afternoon. He was sitting at the kitchen table, eyes glued to his microscope.

John looked up from the book he was reading. “No.”

Sherlock glanced over at him for a moment before returning his line of sight to the microscope. “Did it hurt?”

John considered this for a moment, his eyes turning towards the ceiling. “For a bit, but it wasn’t the bullet that did me in.”

“I know that. It was the pythogenic fever that those imbeciles didn’t catch until it was too late. Still, I’m sorry.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, too stunned to speak. Since he’d returned, not a soul had mentioned his war wound or how he’d died. “Ta for that,” he said at last and turned back to his book.

***

“It’s not right,” Sally mumbled just loud enough for John to hear.

He turned to look at her, brow raised in question. “What?”

“Him. Going around like that. Bare. It’s an insult to war heroes like myself,” she crossed her arms over her chest, Anderson stood behind her in a similar fashion. “He needs to cover his rotten face.”

“One more word out of you and it’ll be sensitivity training for a month, Donovan,” Lestrade entered the room, clearly annoyed.

It wasn’t the first time Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson had voiced their opinions on the PDS community and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but Lestrade would do his damndest to ensure Sherlock and John were not harassed while on a case. They may be PDS sufferers, but Sherlock was still the smartest bloke he knew and John Watson was one damn fine man, Partially Deceased or not. He’d back them any day of the week.

***

John opened the door, a small smile dying on his lips as he took in the older couple standing on the other side.

“Dr. Watson?” the man asked.

“Well… Yes, I suppose.”

The man held out a hand. “Reginald Murray. This is my wife, Margaret. We were wondering if we could have a moment of your time.”

John tentatively grasped the man’s hand and gave a quick, firm shake as he nodded. “Yes, of course. Please, come in. It’s just up the stairs.”

As John led them into the flat, he called out for Sherlock. He ushered the couple to the couch and took a seat in what would normally be the client chair, facing them. Sherlock sauntered into the room in dress trousers and a plum colored shirt. He eyed the couple for a moment before moving to stand behind John.

“Not clients,” he murmured. “How can we help you?” he asked a bit louder.

“Our son, William, was stationed with Dr. Watson in Maiwand,” Reginald began.

“Bill?” John asked, sitting a bit straighter in his chair.

“Yes, that’s what he preferred to be called. We lost contact with him about two weeks into The Rising. We were wondering if you had any information for us. If maybe you know what’s happened with him,” Reginald continued.

“I just know he’s risen. Mother’s instinct, you see,” added Margaret.

Sherlock gave her a speculative look but nodded his head. The Murray’s smiled at them and chatted for a bit with John about Bill Murray’s time in the military. In the back of John’s mind echoed one thought that he knew he had to voice before they left the flat.

“You know,” John started as they rose to leave, “We all came back because we died the year before The Rising.” Reginald and Margaret stared at him blankly, so he continued. “After The Rising… well, people that have died… they haven’t…” Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder had John’s mouth snapping closed.

Sherlock smiled his ‘I’m trying to be human’ smile, “we can look into it for you, but I cannot guarantee anything.”

“We’d be much obliged,” Reginald smiled shakily at them. 

John stood and followed them to the door. When he returned to their flat, Sherlock lay across the sofa with his hands steepled and pressed just below his bottom lip. John plopped himself down into his chair and stared at Sherlock until he deigned to acknowledge John’s presence.

“Yes?” he questioned, cracking one eye open to take in John’s confused look.

“That was a platitude,” John stated, his arms crossing over his stomach as he leaned back in his chair. “Sherlock Holmes just delivered a platitude.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to look more directly at John. “Yes, and?”

“Sherlock fucking Holmes just delivered a platitude. Has the Second Rising happened and I just missed it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his internal contemplation. After a moment of going nowhere because he was all too aware of John’s eyes on him, he pulled himself into a seated position and stared right back. “If you must know…” he paused, seeming to consider his words. “There was a file…” When he didn’t continue, John gestured with his hands in impatience. “Mycroft had a file put together on you when he realized we’d moved in together. Major William ‘Bill’ Murray was an intelligence officer assigned to the patrol you were on when your unit was ambushed. He assisted in removing you from the line of fire when they realized their medic had been hit. If not for him, it may just have been the bullet that killed you. If he is PDS, then I would like the opportunity to thank him for doing what he could to save you, unsuccessful as it was.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment before a soft smile alighted his face. “You’re getting soft, Sherlock Holmes,” he chuckled. “We’ll see what we can do. Should I call Mycroft?”

“It would be most expedient, yes; though I’m sure he’d merely pass it off to one of his many cronies.”

John let out a bark of laughter as he grabbed his phone from the side table near his chair. “Yeah, yeah. But still, it would get things done much quicker. I’ll send him a quick text. You know, he’d be more likely to do it if you sent him one.”

Sherlock stared at him a moment before throwing himself back onto the couch in the fetal position with his face buried in the cushions.

“Git,” john grumbled, though there was a great deal of fondness in his voice.


End file.
